


Maturity.

by orange_crushed



Series: Peace in our time/Maturity [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Pete's World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:36:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know those stories about growing old gracefully and dying with dignity surrounded by your children, having learned meaningful lessons and shedding only a single pure tear?</p><p>This is not that story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maturity.

"Do it again," she says. His eyes flicker to the waitress, engaged in a heated debate with the fry cook, and then back to Rose, who is sitting on the other side of the counter and holding up her fingers in the shape of crooked goalposts.

"No," he says, loftily. "It's silly." He put the three-button suit and the really good blue shirt (French cuffs) on this morning and he is feeling as if he should live up to it. A little. Maybe. "Besides, I haven't got another chip."

"Throw a bean," she suggests.

He looks down at his plate- there are three string beans left, smeared with slightly lumpy gravy, getting cold. If he angles it just right, something of that weight and shape and relative mass will sail past Rose's hands into the trash can. If he angles it wrong, it'll hit the window. Or the jukebox. Well, there's a bit of chaos inherent in any endeavor. He pretends not to be calculating the velocity. "They can't kick us out," Rose adds, under her breath, knowing she's close to winning. "We're important people. Who are just a little bored."

"We're senior citizens," he corrects, dryly. "And one of us is clearly insane."

"Yes- you. Do it," she drawls. "Chicken lord. Time chicken."

He flicks the bean off his plate with a bit more force than strictly necessary; it bounces off the window and hits the play button on the digital jukebox and suddenly everyone in the diner is being treated to a remix version of "I've Had the Time of My Life."

"Ah," he says.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL," says Rose.

 

 

"I'm supposed to say _what_ ?"

"Get off my lawn." Rose gives him a glance that is obviously meant for idiots, of which he did not realize he was one. Hmm. She takes the wooden cane out of his hand and brandishes it half-heartedly. "You know- get off my lawn, you stinking kids ? Like that. I'm sure you can think of something good."

"And I'm saying this to-"

"Oh, you know." She sits back down on the porch railing, swinging her left foot slightly, the one that tends to swell. "To kids."

"Why ?"

"Because they're on your lawn ?"

"Rose-" he puts a hand to his forehead. "I've seen the cartoons. I recognize this particular bizarre stereotype about the elderly. But I don't actually need this cane, and our driveway is two miles long. There are no kids." She doesn't answer that. Instead, she continues to swing her leg in an awkward circle and stare down the wooded drive that leads out to the road. "You're really _very_ bored, aren't you ?" he says suddenly.

"I didn't want to retire." She scowls at the distance. "They practically made me."

"I know."

"And what about you ?" she asks, now turning to face him. "Please tell me you're as bonkers with it as I am."

"Absolutely stark raving," he says, kissing her forehead. "So what do we do about it ? And please don't say perms- that's how Jackie dealt with everything, and I'd hate to discover it's genetic."

"You'd be stuck with me anyway," Rose observes, sagely, "even if I did say perms." His eyes widen slightly. "Don't worry. I was thinking about a vacation or something. Been looking it up. They've got trips to the Galapogos- and don't say we've already been, because that was four days chasing a Balogian tribble and I got bitten by a lizard and passed out twice. I missed everything. Anyway, this time would be better- you get to stay at an ecological resort and observe turtles and ride in boats and stuff. Thought you'd like it."

"That sounds good," he agrees, but his eyes and thoughts are elsewhere, taking on an oddly misty color. "But I've got another idea."

 

 

"This was your idea ?" She turns in a circle, hands on her hips, taking in a slightly shabby office-looking space. They are standing among the stray wires and junk of the garage, which is normally his retreat and the source of many burning smells. Less so than usual, he's proud to say. "You know," she continues, "just because the Torchwood doctors won't commit you, it doesn't mean I won't club you with an encyclopedia and take you in myself."

He ignores her needling just this once and flicks the control panel on- instantly, a bank of flatscreen monitors flips itself out of the wall and the computer terminals flare to life. The new track lights are a mild and flattering pink, which he remembered her saying as being good for the skin. Or for pictures, he forgets. "Oh," she says. "Have you been busy ?"

"Yep," he rolls out. "Rose, meet the command center. Command center, meet Rose."

"Hello," she grins, with a goofy wave at the machines. The Doctor's heart flips, startled with a familiar affection for her that comes in sudden waves and sparks, and lands like lightning. One that's never faded. She runs her hands along the consoles and stares at everything, curiously. "Wow. I was wondering why you stopped helping me re-wire the force block stabilizers. I thought you'd gotten bored. So. What _is_ all this stuff ?"

"It's our new hub." He puts his hands in his pockets and squares his shoulder with obvious pride. Her smile widens, and her tongue almost- almost- goes between her teeth.

"Because they took away our passcards for the real one ?"

"Because they took away our passcards for the real one," he agrees. "It's an honest-to-goodness, signal-tracking, code-breaking, rift-monitoring, neural-path-mapping, genetic-decoding lab... hub... thing." He trails off, then grins. "What do you think ?"

Rose walks a small circuit of the room, being careful not to trip on the massive power cables connecting everything; tapping her fingers along the edges of the monitors and picking up the single framed photo from the edge of the desk. He picked that one himself, for her- Jackie, Pete, Tony, Tony's girlfriend Maria, Jake, himself and Rose. Long ago enough for his hair to still be a thick shock of chestnut. He knows she still misses the glory days of that hair.

"I think," Rose says, softly, "that I adore you."

 

 

They spend the next week in a whirl of delight- gulping down bowls of too-hot oatmeal in their hurry to be dressed and down at the hub at early hours, scanning the grid for energy signals, picking apart newspaper headlines and radio transmissions for signs of disturbances or hostile takeovers or unauthorized technology. Or anything, really- at this point he'd be happy for a repeat of the Yarmouth Incident, which was only a boat and a good-tempered alien smuggler and three cases of hallucinogenic jam.

Ooh. Jam.

They spend the next week in less delight; hunching obsessively over the monitors has made Rose's back hurt, and his eyes start to spasm. Still, there's a giddy undercurrent to everything they do; in the grocery store he even takes her hand and says _run_ under his breath, and they make a break for it right there in the canned foods aisle. They gross out the stockboys by making out in the employee lounge. They try to make love on the sofa- it goes badly the first time and spectacularly the second. They tell old stories back and forth of a million near-misses and spectacular catches and head injuries and times when all they had was a watch and a spoon and six minutes and each other with which to save the day.

They exaggerate, but not by very much.

They spend the next week flicking pencils at each other from across the room and calling Tony to see if he'll bring Simon and Angela over for a weekend- Rose's niece and nephew are almost as insane as they are, though their legs are shorter; and unlike most of the grownups they know, they don't think the world is dull at all. But it turns out they're at camp, putting sticks in other kids' eyes and eating burnt hot dogs until they barf.

"Lucky," he sighs to Rose.

They spend the next week depressed.

 

 

He is sitting in his favorite chair in the backyard with a soldering iron and the pieces of the DVD recorder spread out around him when Rose comes breathlessly up the path behind the house. She doesn't even look at the broken pile of wires and microchips that he tries to hide under himself; instead, she bends down and kisses the top of his head and grabs him by the sleeve.

"I," she says happily, "have discovered something !"

"I can explain the burn in the carpet," he says. "But the one on the wall wasn't me. It sounds unlikely, I know, but there it is." She looks as if she's thinking of commenting, but then waves it away.

"Never mind that." Her eyes are sparkling. "We've been looking in the wrong places," she continues. "You'll never guess."

"Guess what ?"

"My water aerobics teacher," she says, with relish, "is an _alien_." She folds her arms over her chest. "And today I saw his lunch bag. The one he's always so careful to keep in the back cooler, away from all the other staff lunches."

"Phobic ?"

"It was full of _cats_."

"Cats," he echoes. "Cats. Cats and water. No- cats and chlorine. Feline foodstuff and chlorine gas- CALUPHONES," he shouts. "CALUPHONES !" He gets up awkwardly and fists his hands in his thinning hair, flabbergasted. " _Caluphones_ , here, now- Rose, you're incredible ! Well-spotted !" He paces in a circle. "Caluphones are intergalactic arms dealers," he explains. "Well, and some of them also deal in kitten-hair rugs and sweaters. He might be one of those," he adds. "But he might be importing who-knows-what to who-knows-who for nobody-knows-what dark purpose !" He grins at her, wide and sharp. Rose's answering grin fires his heart like a rocket.

"Well, what are we waiting for ?" she says.

 

 

It is laughably easy to stake out the senior living center; they could have gone in the front entrance in the middle of the day if they liked, but all the desk attendants know and love Rose and might recognize the crazy man who sometimes follows her in and steals snacks and lightbulbs out of the recreation rooms.

It's not that they don't have their own recreation room at home, with the clunky homemade pinball machine and the big-screen television for watching Top Gear reruns; not to mention their own excellent pool, where Rose could bring in a non-alien water aerobics instructor if she wished; it's mostly that he knows she likes the people there, all still fussing about life and sandwich fillings and ungrateful offspring and comfortable elastics and bitching about the government. She's not exactly one of them, but her mother was. He suspects that Rose is aware of what she has gotten and not gotten from her life with him, and that she is happy with it; but once a week she swims and does puzzles with women older and frailer than her and they show her pictures of gap-toothed grandchildren and somehow, for her, he knows it makes things work.

Anyway, they break in.

"Open the window further, you stick," she complains, wedged halfway through. "I'm going to puncture myself on this latch." He does, and she drops on top of him. They land on a pile of yoga mats.

They creep through the hallways and end up at the staff lounge, which is empty, as it is nearly midnight on a Sunday and nobody, especially not highly-qualified yet rogue investigators, is meant to be inside. The fridge yields a lunch sack filled with no cats. "What about his locker ?" Rose whispers. "It's in the changing rooms. Could be something in there." This part of the investigation falls to him; for safety's sake he tells her to wait in a broom cupboard, which she will probably not do, and slips into the men's side of the facilities.

The changing rooms are punctuated by an eerie light, which is not coming from the very overcast skies nor the extremely hidden moon. There's a small stand of lockers off to the side with light pouring out of the cracks; he examines them and finds that they are all bearing the exact same padlock, with no brand name- just a small, strange seal on the bottom with angular markings.

"Caluphonic Major Industries," he reads, triumphantly, to himself. "Sloppy work, leaving this right out in the open."

"I'm sorry you think so," says a thin, slippery voice from just behind him. He jumps back, then forwards, in surprise. "It's not like I expected anyone to read the bottom," Rose's swim teacher adds; even in the half-dark, the Doctor can see that he's still clad in his instructor's outfit of blue shorts and white t-shirt, with a whistle hanging around his neck. "And how could you translate that ?"

"Good genes," he says.

"Are you in one of my classes ?" the teacher asks. His eyes narrow, then widen slightly in recognition. "Hang on. You're the one who took all the pool floats and put them in the-"

"Yes, yes, memory lane," the Doctor cuts in. "Point is, what's that ?" he asks, indicating the lockers. "Caluphonia's a long way from here, and we're not in your shipping lanes."

"Short-range jump circuit," the other man says abruptly, "for the commute. All legal. And harmless."

" _Jump circuit_ ?" he mimics. "You expect me to believe that ?" He flips a scanner out of his pocket, where it's been humming, warm and panicky, against his hip as he speaks. "The only thing jumping here is this. Off the charts. You've got a humongous power core stuffed into those gym lockers, and if I'm not mistaken, I'm getting contained gamma radiation signatures." He looks up, jaw slightly slack in surprise. "You've got a genetic scrambler in there."

"And ?"

"You've got a genetic scrambler. _Here_. On Earth," he snaps. "One this size could wipe out half a continent. And they're banned in seven systems. Including this one." His stare is cold. " _Especially_ this one."

"Give me a break, gramps." The other man crosses his arms and leans against the wall; there's a slightly blue cast to his skin, mostly around the eyes and mouth and throat, a common sign of anger for his species. "I was supposed to be in and out. Quick turnaround. Instead I get stuck here for five months and I have to live like a puking, crapping human and get a job. I've only got one month left before the sale goes through, and then I'm out of here. What they plan on doing with it afterwards isn't my problem."

"Turn the weapon in of your own free will, and I can ensure safe passage off the planet," he counters. "This doesn't have to be your life."

The swim teacher shrugs.

"You're in no position to set the terms. Not as I see it. I don't really feel like kicking the crap out of an old man tonight, so you walk away, I've got no quarrel with you. We were never even here."

"I can't let that happen. You're in violation of two treaties that I know of, one of which I signed."

"Just to warn you," the teacher says, baring a set of teeth that are sharper than they ought to be and now almost entirely blue, "I'm not on a strictly cat-only diet."

"Eep," says the Doctor.

It happens in a matter of seconds- the man in blue shorts coils himself like a spring and leaps for the Doctor's throat; the Doctor spins around to throw a boogie board between himself and his apparently deeply carnivorous attacker; and the dim light coming through the locker slits glints off of a very large garden shovel as it's swung at the back of the swim instructor. It connects firmly, and he goes down with the grace of a dump truck. The Doctor clutches the boogie board and stares at his rescuer, who is wearing a pink zippy jacket and white orthopedic sneakers. Rose pulls the shovel back to examine her handiwork.

"Whoof," she says. "These are heavier than I remember."

He's so in love.

 

 

They hold hands all through the Torchwood debriefing and giggle like children at everything. Their field agent for the evening is Maurice, whom Rose trained as a young puppy, so he knows enough to just roll his eyes and keep asking questions, even when they break up into fits of laughter at the word "incident."

"Look, you two," he says at last. "I've got to fill out at least one exposure form, and two forms that state you've both already had all your inoculations. Can we get this moving ?"

"And a form for property damage," Rose chimes in.

"And a form for weapons decommission and disposal. And the sub-form for that, since it was a gene weapon," the Doctor continues.

"And-"

"I get the idea," Maurice says, dryly. "I suppose you have a solution to this."

"Yes," Rose says, with a sly glance at her partner. "You could just give us our keys back and admit the retirement party was a terrible mistake." She grins, and now her tongue really does go firmly between her teeth, the flirt. "Maybe even a couple of shiny new nameplates in our old office. You never know how hard I'll push."

"And I," the Doctor adds, "would like a plant."

It's almost too easy.

 

 

"What do you think ?"

"I think it's the Bnool again," he says, without looking up. He's chewing the end of his pen; he has already once dipped the end in peanut butter and gotten horrified stares for it. It still tastes nutty. "I think we should send Charley. They seem to like him. We can slip the teleport into his pocket, though, this time. They like hostages a little too much, as you'll recall." She clears her throat, and he glances towards her, where she's sitting on the sofa in front of the picture window at the other end of their old office- now the new office, with new carpets and new personal assistants who haven't been driven mad yet.

Her head is framed in the brilliance of the day, the soft salt-and-pepper of her natural color almost yellow in that light. Just as he remembers it, the halo of her youth. She looks beautiful. She always looks beautiful, that's the trouble; even when she is making him pick up after himself or keeping him away from the animal cages at the Bronx Zoo.

"What do you think ?" she asks again. His too-human heart rises and settles in his throat. Such a precious question, with too many answers.

"Rose-" he starts to say, thinking of a hundred flowery things he's read in books, none of which seem to sum it up. He takes a deep breath and then looks down a few inches at the nameplate she's holding. It's cut glass, very elegant and modern, and it has her name in large incised silver letters; just under that, it is supposed to say "EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR."

It doesn't.

"Well ?"

"Rose," he repeats, grinning sideways at her, "you've got a misprinted title. As far as I know, you're not the queen of anything."

"That's what you think," she says.


End file.
